


Parental Controls

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Cas Gardens, Coda, Coming Untouched, Dean is Not Amused, Episode: s11e04 Baby, First Kiss, First Time, Humor, M/M, Porn, Sam Knows, Souls and Grace, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Update: Okay Some Porn, Yet not porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 19:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5177663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, what is it that I should know?” asks Cas, when it becomes clear Dean won't say anything else, and Dean's head swivels around so quickly he almost pulls a muscle in his neck and dies.</p><p>“About gay sex?” he croaks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, both of the (long) stories I’m writing are turning out a bit dark, and I desperately needed some sugar. Here is something that probably (totally) happened after _Baby_. Blame the Netflix.

Dean knows from (long, annoying, _Will you_ please _just give it a rest_ ) experience that when Sam decides to be Good, bad things happen. Because, well, it’s sort of a universal law that Good People need everyone around them to be Good as well (for some secret, and probably fucked-up reason); and Dean isn't going to be part of that club. Not now, not ever.

Being Good _sucks_.

Not that Dean regrets being a demon and whoring it out with Crowley. Not one bit. Really, no. It’s the rest of it that bugs him - keeping the lawn properly mowed and going to bed before midnight and eating adult cereals that don’t turn your milk blue and brown.

So the second Sam starts to get up at six, and to run his daily 10K; to lift scarily huge weights in the Bunker’s run-down gym, to drink his green smoothies – well, Dean can feel the storm oncoming, and, slowly, he's proven right.

Which is unfair, because he barely escaped being hacked to pieces, like, four days ago, and fuck him if he doesn’t deserve a holiday or (at the very least) some creature comforts.

But, well, the answer is no, he doesn’t.

So, like, this one evening Sam only cooks veggie burgers (“It wouldn’t kill you to watch your cholesterol, Dean.”). And then the morning after that he pleads and cow-eyes and bitches Dean to join him for a hill run (as if that is going to happen). And next, he starts tossing books at Dean's head when Dean is trying to watch _Dr Sexy_ (which is completely unfair, because the show is highly educational - now Dean will never know how to perform an intraoperative brain mapping with a plastic fork because Sam was standing in front of the screen, and who knows when they will actually need that, right?).

So, on the whole, when Sam comes into the kitchen one morning and sits down and glares at Dean until Dean is forced to acknowledge it and raise his eyes from what is perfectly good bacon, Dean is not surprised.

“What now?” he snaps, and Sam pulls a bitch face to rival all bitch faces.

“Is it too much to ask that you use your _own_ laptop to watch porn?”

“What?”

“Don’t _what_ me.”

“Dude, I don't -”

“Right. Because I turned it on this morning and it was all funny, and then I realized that, wait for it, it had a virus and now my research on Aristotle’s theories on the soul is gone and -”

“As _fascinating_ as that sounds -”

“We don’t _know_ what we’re up against - _anything_ can help!”

“Yeah, that’s what I said last night when -” starts Dean, but Sam looks at him with such venom that he shuts up.

“And then I looked at the browser history,” Sam continues, seemingly making a huge effort to rise above, “and guess what, _someone_ has been watching porn videos for six hours straight last night and -”

“What? And you think -”

“What am I _supposed_ to think, Dean? I mean, it's sad enough that you watch porn in the first place, but -”

Dean actually laughs, because this is just precious.

“Oh, don't pretend you don't, you -” he says, grabbing the butter.

“- but I'd be really fucking _grateful_ if you didn't do it on my computer, because that’s just _gross_ , and -”

“I DIDN’T TOUCH YOUR GODDAMN LAPTOP,” shouts Dean, out of nowhere, and, okay, it was too loud and a bit weird, but honestly.

Sam breathes in through his nose - loudly. Always a bad sign, that.

“Right.”

“And _everyone_ watches porn. _Women_ watch porn, dude.”

“ _Dean_ -”

“Porn is perfectly normal and healthy. I mean, why would there be so many porn websites if -”

“Would you _stop_ saying _porn_ , for fuck's -”

Dean opens his mouth to say it one more time, and Sam takes advantage of Dean's distraction to steal his plate away.

“Just apologize,” he says, standing up.

“ _Sammy_ ,” starts Dean, low and threatening.

The bacon was still hot, dammit. And it was premium pork. The very good, expensive stuff.

“Look, maybe you don't care, but I spent a _week_ on that research, and I -”

“Mother of - I didn't _take_ your fucking laptop! Now give me my breakfast back!”

Dean stands up, and Sam takes a step back, raises the plate as high as he can, which, admittedly, is pretty high.

Dean growls at Sam as he considers how undignified it would be to jump. 

Although, now he comes to think of it, hacking off Sam’s legs at the knee would be a cleverer, more strategical choice.

“I wiped your fucking ass more times than I can count,” says Dean, gritting his teeth. “You don't _get_ to steal my breakfast, Sammy. Give - it - _back_.”

Sam is not moved by this, because he’s cold and callous and quite probably soulless (again).

“Say you're sorry.”

Dean makes a lunge for the plate and misses.

“Look, I didn't - for fuck’s sake, all my bookmarks are on _my_ laptop, which is in _my_ bedroom, okay? Why would I want to steal your stupid -”

“Well, _someone_ did, and if you didn't, then who -”

It's been just the two of them for so long that it honestly never occurred to them to think about another possible culprit until now; but as soon as the question is out, Sam goes beet red and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Fucking _Cas_ ,” he says, and then he reaches up, takes his plate from Sam's unresponsive fingers, and sits down at the table again.

“You really think -” starts Sam, sounding incredibly embarrassed, and Dean pops a rasher into his mouth and just grins around it.

“But he isn't -” tries Sam again, and fails. “Is he?” he adds, miserably.

Dean shrugs.

“He did bone that Reaper,” he says, and he tries to ignore the stab of anger that always comes with that particular memory.

“He was human then, though.”

Dean cuts into his egg without answering. Fuck him if he knows how Cas' sexuality works. Fuck him if he’s interested, in any way.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam shake his head, walk to the fridge, open it and close it without taking anything out.

“Cas?” he asks, turning around again. “ _Cas_? Really?”

Dean finally butters his toast, very carefully, as he bites down a dozen possible answers.

“Why not?” he says in the end, and Sam makes this sound he makes when he’s feeling awkward and freakish and terribly wrong.

“That was some - some really _nasty_ stuff he was looking at,” he says, and he actually blushes.

_Right._

“He's a grownass man,” says Dean, shrugging. “He can do what he wants.”

“He's not a man, though. That's kind of the point.”

Dean doesn't answer. One thing he's _not_ going to do - he's _not_ going to ask Sam what Cas was looking at. Definitely _not_. Because, well, who cares?

He bites down into his buttered toast instead.

“Maybe someone should talk to him,” says Sam, after a while, and now Dean cringes, because when Sam says _someone_ ,what he always means is _you_ , and that suggestion was fucked up enough as it was without any need to bring Dean into the equation.

“Have fun,” he says, pointedly, scooping up the now empty plate, and moving to put it in the sink.

“What?” says Sam, and the expression on his face is so comical - not so much a deer caught in headlights as a deer caught under the goddamn _USS Enterprise_ \- that Dean has to try very, very hard not to laugh.

“You're the sensible one,” he answers, completely deadpan. “You're always good at this kind of girly talk.”

“ _What?_ ” says Sam again, and he might quite possibly be broken.

“Your turn to do the dishes,” Dean reminds him, and he starts to walk out of the kitchen.

“Dean, wait - there's no way - he's _your_ angel,” Sam says, irrationally, as though Cas were an unruly Terrier and he'd just mauled the neighbours' chickens or something. “ _You_ talk to him.”

Dean looks down at the freakishly beefy arm Sam has placed across the threshold to stop him from leaving, and then he looks up at his brother in exasperation.

“Dude, I’m not talking to him. You bit my head off only last week because I told some guy we don't even know his soul was gone.”

“I -”

“Which was perfectly true, by the way. And he was fine with it.”

“ _Dean_ -”

“And personally, I approve of Cas expanding his horizons a bit. Nothing to talk about there.”

Sam takes a deep breath, and something human comes back on his face - something Dean doesn't like at all.

“Yeah, I'm sure you're all in favour of 'expanding Cas' horizons',” he says, sketching quotations marks in mid air, “but this is not what this is about.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?” asks Dean, and he uses his _Say one more word and I'll break your nose_ voice, because, well.

Sam stares at him for a long second, as if willing himself to start an argument, but in the end he apparently decides to back down.

Which makes perfect sense. Sam has always been the smart one. Those dicks at Stanford don’t let just anyone in, after all.

“I just meant - internet porn can be nasty. And not like real life at all. And also, it comes with viruses. You should give Cas some of your websites, or something. Just to be safe.”

Dean looks up in exasperation.

“Sam -”

“Look, I don't want to have to buy a new hardware every goddamn _week_ , okay? And I _did_ spend a lot of time on that research, so - just - talk to him.”

And what’s unfair is, he never gives Dean the opportunity to answer. Instead, he manages to squish his gigantic frame past Dean, and the next second, he's gone.

“Great,” mumbles Dean. “Just fucking great. Just remember the dishes, assbutt!” he yells, down the empty corridor, and then starts to walk the other way.

 _Jesus_. Like this is a conversation he's looking forward to have with Cas. _Uh-uh_. That one time he'd had to explain about personal space was bad enough (“But your endorphins levels are rising, Dean. Doesn’t that mean -”), but this - this is going to be one for the fucking _ages_.

Well, no point in putting it off. It's not like he has anything else to do, after all - Baby is all patched up, the shopping is done, as is the cleaning. He'd been looking forward to skim through the latest _One Piece_ chapter, but now it looks like that will have to wait.

Cursing under his breath, Dean makes his way out of the bunker. Cas has apparently decided he misses the open air (“This place is - well, it doesn’t have any windows, and I -” he’d said, only last night, in a feeble attempt to justify his newest hobby, and Dean’s heart had dented a little when he’d realized Cas was trying to say he missed the sky, and, quite possibly, flying), and so he's basically spent the last three days turning their backyard into a poison garden. Because, yes, they're the kind of people who need a poison garden, apparently.

 _Hashtag Life Goals_ , as Claire had messaged back when Cas had shared his project with her.

“It's mostly antidotes,” Cas had said, his blue eyes huge and earnest on his face when Dean had questioned the usefulness of the thing, and after all, why not?

They already have a dungeon, and a weapons room with an actual double-headed axes collection, so bring it on.

What Dean hadn't been expecting, because he's an idiot and he forgets who (what) Cas actually is, like, all the time, is that the thing would progress so quickly.

So once he emerges from the back door and blinks into the sunlight, he has to physically stop and stare.

Their backyard is not a backyard. It’s a stretch of forest which someone with a lot of time on their hands (and a healthy dose of paranoia) has cleared of trees so nothing can sneak upon them unseen. It’s a fairly large space, but a bit depressing. On the right, there is some leftover wood from - well. And on the left, the bit Cas has had permission to commandeer, there’s just dry grass and a couple of tree stumps.

Or, at least, there used to be. Until last fucking week.

Now - now there is a garden.

Cas has created a neat labyrinth of smooth rocks, which doesn't seem to form a particular pattern but is way too intricate to be random. And in the empty spaces between the lines, there is stuff growing. _Blooming_.

Dean recognizes the dark leaves of the Belladonna plant, and the purple flowers of Wolfsbane.

_Son of a bitch._

“Do you like it?” asks Cas from behind him; he sounds way too close, and Dean jumps.

“Dude! Don't _do_ that!” he says, half turning around.

“Sorry,” says Cas, somehow not sounding sorry at all.

He steps to one side, skims his eyes over the small garden.

“That's mugwort,” he says a bit proudly, pointing at at an unruly bush which looks like celery. “It's good for prophetic dreams.”

“Right,” says Dean, still a bit dazed.

“And that's foxglove - deadly to fairies. You hardly see them anymore,” he adds, sounding way too nostalgic for a breed of creatures which once almost succeeded in biting Dean’s nose off, “but it could still come in useful.”

“Okay.”

They stand side by side for a moment, just looking at the thing, and Dean grows more embarrassed by the minute, because he wants to take an interest in this, okay, because this is _awesome_ , but at the same time Sam’s words keep echoing inside his mind and -

“You know I can hear through walls, right?” says Cas in the end, and Dean coughs awkwardly.

“I - yes,” he says, though actually he’d forgotten all about it.

“I'm sorry I broke Sam's laptop,” says Cas, seriously. “Maybe I can heal it?”

Dean can’t help it. He laughs.

“I doubt that, buddy,” he answers.

There is another moment of silence. Something which may or may not be a mandrake starts to snake his roots around one of Cas’ carefully positioned rocks, and Dean watches it in unwilling fascination. 

“So, do you want to talk to me now or later?” asks Cas, and he sounds so genuinely solicitous that Dean wants to strangle him.

“Cas -”

“I don't mind either way.”

Dean takes a deep breath.

“Why were you even looking at that stuff?” he says, before he loses his nerve.

And it may be a trick of the light, but Cas' pale skin tinges slightly with red.

“I was watching something on the Netflix,” he says, stoically, “and I came across - I just wanted to check something, that's all.”

“I thought you'd done all your checking with April,” says Dean, and is taken by surprise by the bitterness in his voice.

“She -” starts Cas, and he hesitates. “We didn't do much, Dean. It was about comfort, nothing else.”

Comfort. Right. _Bet that bitch comforted him real good before putting a blade through his -_

“And she was a woman,” Cas adds, just when Dean has managed let go of his anger and starts to nod.

_Jesus._

Dean closes his hands so tightly by his sides he knows his nails will leave a mark.

“Right. And you, uh,” he says, and he will probably win some kind of Embarrassed Moron of the Year Award, but the question just won't come out.

“I was curious,” says Cas, simply.

Dean looks at the garden again and tries to keep his mind completely blank, because, fuck, if Cas should read his thoughts right now - _fuck_.

He’s so screwed.

“So, what is it that I should know?” asks Cas, when it becomes clear Dean won't say anything else, and Dean's head swivels around so quickly he almost pulls a muscle in his neck and dies.

“About gay sex?” he croaks.

“About computer security,” Cas specifies, in that earnest, serious voice of his.

“Oh. Right.”

Dean gets lost in Cas’ blue eyes. He manages to look away before he drowns, but it’s a very, very close thing. 

“But if you have any advice concerning gay sex, I'd be glad to listen to it.”

And maybe this - all of this - is just a very elaborate plan to kill him. Maybe he never left the Pit in the first place, and Alastair is standing behind some fucking two-way mirror, laughing his head off.

“Cas, I don't - I’m not -” starts Dean, and then he remembers that this is _Cas_ \- that Cas freaking rebuilt Dean's body from the inside out, so, well, he's seen all of his memories and things.

_Fuck._

“You've been around a while,” he says, feebly. “I'm sure you know all there is to know.”

“That's probably true,” Cas frowns, and how the hell is so _unaffected_ by all this? Fucking _how_? “Still, humans are so creative. Did you know about anal bleaching?” he asks, and Dean is now about 98% sure he will throw up his breakfast.

Which would be a shame, really, because that was premium pig meat. Organic and locally grown and expensive as fuck.

“I -uh - am aware of it, yes,” he forces out, with only a minimal amount of awkward shuffling.

“What's the point?” asks Cas, curiously.

Dean feels himself blushing an even deeper shade of red. It's quite possible his whole face will catch fire, actually. Which would be great, because then at least this fucking conversation would be over.

“It - it looks better, I guess,” he says, in a strangled voice. “Some people think.”

“Do you?” Cas asks,and the whole situation is so surreal Dean is reminded of that other time - of Cas looking completely demented, of the way he’d been staring at him in utter fascination.

 _I mean, how important is lipstick to you, Dean?_

It had _killed_ him to see Cas so broken and out of it, and at the same time there had been a sweetness about him then - it had always been there, of course, but when his strategic thinking and his badassery had been stripped from him, Cas had _looked_ \- despite everything he’d done, Dean had wanted, more than anything, to tuck him into some bed with Superman sheets and crawl in next to him and never let go.

“I guess I never really thought about it,” he says, when he can breathe again.

Cas makes a humming noise which could mean anything.

“I planted three varieties of tomatoes,” says, out of the blue, raising his hand to point at the right end corner of the little garden. “I know Sam is fond of them.”

“Oh - okay,” says Dean, taken aback by the abrupt change of subject.

How did they go from anal bleaching to tomatoes in two minutes straight? And why does he feel they should actually go back to - well, not to the anal bleaching, that’s gross, but to - _to_ -

“And the yellow flower over there is arnica,” Cas adds, and his voice becomes soft again. “Or a breed of arnica, at least. Theophrastus of Eresos created this particular mix, but it’s been extinct for two thousand years.”

Dean just stares at him.

“Arnica montana and star grass,” says Cas, a bit sadly, and again, the light catches his face just so, and Dean finds he can’t look away. “A paste of its flowers works very well on cuts and bruises.”

The huge weight of whatever is between us suddenly crashes down on Dean; it makes him deaf and blind and fucking done for a full minute, because Dean can’t -

_I did it, all of it, for you._

“Dean -” starts Cas, but Dean raises his hands up.

“That’s good, Cas. Good, solid work. You just - as you were,” he grates out, and then he turns around and flees back to the Bunker. 

# ...

It’s a weird kind of day after that, though.

Dean marches back to his room and opens up his mangas and then he has to keep scrolling back up because the text somehow doesn’t make sense, doesn’t explain the pictures at all.

Which he puts down to bad translation.

Because that’s, like, always the problem.

And _definitely_ not the way Cas had said his name - and what the _hell_ was he implying? That he wanted to get out of the Bunker, and therefore he will not be around to fix them every goddamn day? Or that it’s Dean’s fault - which is not wrong - has Cas just assumed Dean doesn’t want to be healed by Cas, like, ever again?

Because, to be fair, that only happened twice.

And Dean hadn’t planned on the second time at all. When they’d been back from Oregon, he’d been sort of sold on the idea of letting Cas fix him up, because, dammit, his ribs fucking _hurt_.

But then he’d caught his reflection in Baby’s mirror as he was parking her - he’d seen the faint outline of a bruise around his left eye - the ghost of Cas’ punches - and he’d just -

 _Next time_ , he’d told the both of them, and he’d just walked out before Cas’ _kicked puppy_ face and Sam’s _For the love of God_ face had even started forming.

Doflamingo says the greatest war the world has ever seen will soon be upon them, and Dean frowns, because he doesn’t even remember Tsuru capturing him in the first place.

The whole thing makes no sense at all.

With a half curse, Dean scrolls up again, and then clicks on the previous chapter, realizes he doesn’t remember that, either, and goes back one more page.

Sam pops his head in at around midday and get a slipper in his face.

The next time he wants to talk to Dean, he does it without opening the door.

“I’m driving to Hastings,” he says, and Dean rolls his eyes at him even though Sam cannot see him.

“Yeah? Something exciting going on?”

“They’re having a Hitchcock’s retrospective,” he says, and it’s good he sounds embarrassed, because he totally should be.

“Haven’t you seen _all_ of his movies, like, ten times?”

There is a slight pause.

“Tippi Hedren is going to be there,” he offers, carefully. “Probably.”

Dean snorts.

“Go you.”

“Dean -”

“If you need condoms, there’s a box in the smaller bathroom.”

Another pause.

“ _Jesus_ , Dean,” says Sam in the end, and Dean hears him walk away.

Dean waits for another twenty minutes before venturing out of his room and go forage for beer and a sandwich in the kitchen. He thinks he hears Cas moving around the library, so he just piles two slices of bread and a whole pack of Sam’s weird and low-fat turkey ham on a plate before making his escape.

Still, nothing good is on.

Dean has given up on reading early in the afternoon, and he’s now flicking through his anime bookmarks, finally settling on _Ouran High School Host Club_. He’s seen it all already, but it definitely deserves a rewatch.

Also, he’s a grownass man and he can do whatever he wants.

Fuck, his ribs _hurt_ , though.

And this ham _sucks_.

The knock on his door comes at around ten. Too late to be casual, and yet not too late to be rude.

“Yeah,” says Dean, muting the sound.

“Dean?”

It’s Cas. Of course it’s _Cas_ , goddammit. Too early for Sam to be back, and monsters don’t tend to knock. Though, you never know. The Carrigans would probably have knocked, come to think of it.

“Yeah, come in,” says Dean, because that’s what you do and what choice does he have, really?

Cas shuffles inside the room, just barely, looking his usual mixture of unsure and guilty.

He lets his eyes travel around the room, taking in the empty beer bottles and dirty plate, before settling on Dean himself, stretched out on the bed with a warm laptop on his belly and the headphones still on.

“Do you think I could use Sam’s laptop?” he asks.

Dean doesn’t know whether to laugh or cringe, so he just does this totally unpracticed, manly flip of his head to get rid of the headphones and then frowns.

“I’m afraid it’s still broken, Cas.”

“Oh.”

They stare at each other for a moment.

“Did you need anything?” says Dean, in what he hopes is a caring and yet completely disinterested voice.

“Buffy died,” says Cas, a bit forlornly. 

Dean sits up a bit straighter.

“Buffy - are you watching _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_?” he asks, incredulously.

“It was on the Netflix,” says Cas, and he juts his chin out in his _I will not be bullied, Dean_ look.

Dean sighs.

“What season are you on?”

“I just finished Season 5.”

Dean looks at Cas, then away. He sighs again.

“You can use mine,” he says. “I wasn’t doing anything important, anyway.”

Cas takes an uncertain step forward, and Dean lowers his eyes to the screen, fiddles with the keys until he finds the right website.

“Here,” he says, trying to stand up and making a mess with the cables. “ _Bargaining, Part 1_.”

Cas has stopped where he was, and Dean has yet to figure out how to move the laptop without killing himself, so they remain nine feet apart, which seems somehow wrong. Cas is still wearing his full angel uniform, while Dean has spent the afternoon in his boxers and an old Zeppelin tee, so it’s all a bit confusing - it looks like Cas is the responsible adult who just came home from work and Dean is the one who has to bitch and insist that, no, just because he’s been home it doesn’t mean he hasn’t done anything all day, thank you very much - those floors don’t polish themselves, you know?

But of course, this is ridiculous, and Dean _did_ do nothing all day.

Since Cas seems determined not to move another inch forward, Dean finally stands up and brings the laptop over to him.

“Here,” he says, and Cas takes it.

Their hands touch, but Dean doesn’t move away, and neither does Cas.

Dean looks down, only just, to Cas’ eyes, to the line of his jaw, and then he shakes his head and takes a step back.

“Why are you even watching so much Netflix, anyway?” he asks, offhandedly, as though this is what they’ve been actually talking about.

“I don't sleep,” says Cas, carefully moving the laptop around until it’s secure in his arms.

“Like, ever?”

“No.”

“That’s messed up,” says Dean, because he does remember what not sleeping was like - he didn’t need to sleep in Purgatory, of course, and he mostly hadn’t slept when he’d been out doing - _stuff_ \- with Crowley.

It had been exhilarating at first, but pretty soon he’d missed it. The quiet, the time-out from the world; even the dreams.

Of course, Cas is an angel and he’s used to it. Dean remembers those times when Cas needed to sleep - remembers Cas weakened and broken - and he’s happy he doesn’t need to anymore, but still. It’s fucking unnatural.

It’s lonely.

“Can't you even power down, or something?”

And now Cas looks suddenly shifty.

“I could, yes.”

“But?” asks Dean, because there was a sentence there and Cas is not saying it.

“It leaves me - vulnerable,” says Cas.

Dean has to think it over in his mind.

“Are you saying - are you afraid of the dark, Cas?” and, congratulations, he’s just won the Asshole of the Month Prize, which will probably be something sucky like chocolate with raisins in it and he will totally deserve it.

Cas looks down, then up at Dean again. He doesn’t answer.

“I didn’t mean - I’m an idiot,” says Dean (the understatement of the goddamn century). “I just meant - this is your _home_ , Cas. You don’t have to feel - vulnerable. Not here.”

It’s beautiful, the way Cas’ face seems to light up from the inside. Dean takes a step forward without meaning to, because that light - _Jesus_.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean glances at Cas’ lips again, then clears his throat.

“How do you do that, anyway? You know, power down?”

“I pray,” says Cas, simply, and Dean will never know what prompted his next words - he probably has a brain tumor, or something. No filter between mouth and common sense.

“Will you show me?”

Cas hesitates.

 _It leaves me vulnerable_ , he’d said, and Dean knows, very well, what being vulnerable means - he’s been tied up and threatened and cut open more times than he could count - and he also knows that for Cas, everything is different, because he’s a goddamn angel of the Lord, and he’s not used to this - to the inevitability of pain and betrayal, to baring yourself every single day of your life and hoping you’ll make it to the other side.

“It’s not all that interesting,” he says, after a few seconds, but he still moves forward, puts the laptop on Dean’s bedside table, and then he looks around, walks back to the chair where Dean has haphazardly thrown his outside clothes.

“Wait, you’re going to do it there?” Dean asks. “Didn’t you say it was like sleeping?”

He’s actually moving towards the door, thinking vaguely to accompany Cas to what should be his room (except Cas has not been using it, not really, because he doesn’t have - doesn’t _need_ \- a change of clothes to put in his wardrobe and has been spending his nights in the Situation Room in front of a flickering screen and his days growing flowers and things over their heads, and Dean can’t -) at the same moment that Cas has started walking the other way, towards Dean’s bed.

They freeze.

“I’m sorry,” says Cas. “I thought you meant-”

“I didn’t -” starts Dean, but there is, again, something forlorn in Cas’ expression, and the rest of the sentence won’t come out. “It’s a big bed,” he says instead, and he finishes the movement by closing the door.

So now they are in the same room - in a bedroom - at night - and that is perfectly fine.

Dean has a sudden flash of that motel back in Rexford. Of his own strained _Goodnight, then_ ; of Cas’ quiet answer ( _Goodnight, Dean_ ). Of how silent that room had been, because neither of them was sleeping, obviously, and even the fact that they were actually breathing had been up for debate.

As Dean has been having his midlife crisis, Cas has already started to undress. It’s almost scary how good he’s gotten in these human things (“People don’t get in bed with a trenchcoat, Cas.”). Dean remains by the door, red-faced and unhappy and idiotically hopeful as Cas strips down to his boxers (white, sensible) and his tee (also white, also sensible).

He looks weird and hot and completely adorable.

“It’s probably better if I don’t get under the covers,” he says, turning back to look at Dean. “I know you’re uncomfortable with random physical contact, and I don’t get cold, anyway.”

Yeah, like any of this is _random_ , thinks Dean, because now he’s starting to have the irrational suspicion that all of this is a malicious, gigantic set-up. Because, come on, Sam sending him to have the bird and the bees talk with Cas - and then _leaving_ for the evening - and now Cas coming in and stripping down to his -

“I don’t mind, Cas,” he says, because two can fucking well play at this game.

“As you wish,” says Cas, deadpan and quite possibly oblivious, and he slides into Dean’s bed.

On the left side.

The free side.

 _You either have the worst game or the best_ , Dean thinks. And then he switches the lights off.

And the world doesn’t end.

Cas remains silent for so long Dean starts to wonder if he’s doing it already; if he’s praying, or meditating, or whatever he does, and he’s dead to the world. He thinks about poking him, and then rolls his eyes at himself, because, _really_?

“Are you doing it yet?” he asks, staring up at the ceiling (not that he can see it: the room is pitch-black).

“No,” says Cas softly.

“I’m right here,” says Dean, and this somehow means everything else he cannot say.

“Thank you. I will - I will begin in a minute.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.

“I think it will be good for me,” says Cas, and he’s being so still his voice is almost disembodied. “Being cut off from the Host is - difficult. I haven’t prayed in a long time, and I miss it.”

Dean reaches over, finds Cas’ hand and squeezes it. It’s not a conscious decision. It’s just the way things are. He can’t even begin to imagine what Cas is going through - how it feels. All he knows is it’s his fault.

Cas sighs and squeezes back, and Dean lets go of his hand before that can lead to anything else, because this is bad enough.

“I’m sorry to make you uncomfortable,” says Cas, even more quietly, and Dean turns his head to the left, tries to find Cas' familiar features in the dark.

“I’m not uncomfortable. It’s just - I haven’t shared a bed with anyone in a very long time.”

“Do you miss it?” Cas asks, and Dean turns his head again, looks straight up.

“I never really had it, Cas,” Dean says.

Unbidden and unwelcome, Sam’s words float out of the darkness and flash in front of his eyes with huge, neon letters.

 _You don't ever think about something? Not marriage or whatever. But -_ something _? You know, with a hunter? Somebody who understands the life?_

The sentence just hangs there, lopsided and sad and all kinds of wrong; and then, because he's an idiot and can’t think two steps ahead to save his own life, Dean adds, a bit desperately, “What about you?”

Cas is silent a long time. Such a long time that the world has probably ended and started anew. There’s probably tadpoles crawling down the Bunker’s corridors, or something. And the silence is so deep Dean begins to become aware of how stupidly human he is - there are noises all around him, even inside him - his stomach doing weird things every now and then, his hair way too loud on the fabric of the pillow, his body doing loud things to the sheets when he gives up and turns on his side, facing away from Cas.

“It’s different,” Cas says, a bit diffidently, when Dean can almost kid himself that he’ll fall asleep any minute now. “I am used to being part of a - a group, I guess you would say. And now I’m not, not anymore, and I don’t know - I don’t know.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. What can he say? He doesn’t understand how any of this stuff works.

“But the weight of your soul is very comforting,” says Cas, after another long moment, and this is just - _God_.

“Are you saying I’m fat?” he says, and he can physically hear the sound of Cas trying to decide if he’s being serious or not.

“No, I’m -”

“I was kidding, Cas.”

Dean wants to turns around, but, yeah, that’s not happening because of reasons. Like, he might actually hug Cas if he were facing him now, and the whole thing is awkward enough as it is.

“I just meant - how does a human soul feel like?”

“I don’t know,” says Cas, and then his voice gets so quiet Dean is almost sure he misunderstood. “I know what yours feels like.”

“And how is that?” he whispers back.

“Warm. Caring. Colourful.”

Jesus.

“Isn’t that how Grace is like?” asks Dean, because he remembers Cas saying something about that, about the world being cold and grey without the fiery light of his own Grace inside him.

Cas makes a sound which could be dissent.

“Grace is more like this,” he says, and Dean feels him moving, and before he can do anything, before he can decide if there’s anything he wants to do, Cas is right behind him, his hand over Dean’s shoulder, exactly where the scar is, and Dean -

It’s like being very high up - so high up colours stop to make sense and sound is a memory and everything moves very, very slowly - and yet Dean is not afraid - he’s seeing things, stuff which may be a distant forest, or perhaps feelings - there are actual clouds around him, drunk with rain and thunder - he should be afraid, because this is not right, this is too much -

But he is not afraid. He feels warm and cherished, and he knows Cas is the heat keeping him upright, making him walk and run through the air, and Dean gives himself up to the feeling, because it is joy and love and _everything_ -

Cas takes his hand off Dean, and Dean gasps.

“What - the _hell_ ,” he says, sitting up and nearly cracking his head open on the shelf over his bed. “Cas - _what_ -”

“That was my Grace,” says Cas, unnecessarily, and he’s glowing slightly, so now Dean can see him - he looks dishevelled, his hair all over the place, as if he’s just been flying; though of course, it’s probably just the pillow.

Dean looks down at him and starts to hyperventilate.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” says Cas. “I was just trying to explain.”

“You didn’t - I’m not - fucking _hell_ ,” says Dean.

He tries to take a swig of beer from the bottle on his bedside, but he’s Dean fucking Winchester and he never catches a break and the bottle is empty.

“I’m sorry,” says Cas again, and he sorts of powers down until Dean can’t see him anymore; until the room is completely dark again.

“Jesus, you have _nothing_ to apologize for,” says Dean, reaching a hand out and catching Cas’ jaw on the first try. “That was fucking _beautiful_ ,” he whispers, and then he bends down, presses their lips together.

Cas’ breath catches, and then Dean feels him smile under his own mouth.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to pray?” he asks, raising his head, only just.

“Let me fix your ribs, at least,” says Cas quietly, and Dean feels Cas’ left hand come up and fist in his hair.

“God, you don’t give up,” he answers, and Cas forces him down again, and then they’re kissing, slowly and chastely, and Dean can feel a sense of wellbeing spreading through his body as Cas heals him.

“ _Never_ do that to Sam,” he says, sternly, and then he shuffles back under the covers, a bit freaked out and a lot happy.

“I won’t,” promise Cas, and that’s it.

Dean can feel him start - praying, or whatever he’s doing, and when he reaches out and touches him a moment later, he finds Cas is a bit colder, and as unmovable as a statue.

“You better not snore,” says Dean, even though he knows very well that Cas can’t hear him, and then he gets a little bit closer, curls his fingers around Cas’ arm and closes his eyes.

He’d thought he would never manage to sleep, because, well, but Cas’ healing spell seems to have fixed a lot more besides; it has left him quiet and soft.

Dean burrows his head into the pillow and sleeps.

# ...

When Sam sees them coming out of the room together the next morning, his eyebrows do a thing that they have no right to do - not after Sam drove a hundred miles and back for a fucking black and white movie he’s seen twelve times already, and not after he apparently drove back just in time to change into his girly, pervy running gear and head out into the woods like some freaking Universal Soldier.

“Don't say a fucking _word_ ,” says Dean, slamming the door shut behind him.

Sam’s eyebrows go even higher.

“I’m glad you talked,” he says, and then he fiddles with his watch for a second and he’s gone.

“You eating this morning?” asks Dean, trying, and failing, to seem completely unruffled.

“I could eat,” says Cas seriously, and Dean claps him on the shoulder.

“Great. I’ll make the pancakes, and you can get started on chopping the kale and dead rats for Sam’s smoothie.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wasn’t planning on a second part at all. I had work to be worked. And papers to be papered. And things. You know. Life.
> 
> But it is what it is.
> 
> Also, well, it’s the first time I write something quite like this, so that sudden heat you may be feeling right now - that would be me blushing. And sort of hoping this turned out okay.
> 
> God, these two idiots are going to be the _death_ of me.

“Jesus, you have _nothing_ to apologize for,” says Dean, reaching a hand out and catching Cas’ jaw on the first try. “That was fucking _beautiful_ ,” he whispers, and then he bends down, presses their lips together.

Cas’ breath catches, and then Dean feels him smile under his own mouth.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to pray?” he asks, raising his head, only just.

“I’m praying right now,” says Cas, and he reaches up, fists his hand in Dean’s hair and forces him down again.

And when they kiss, it’s not so innocent anymore. Dean can just stay there in idiotic disbelief as Cas licks his way inside his mouth; as he nibbles on Dean’s mouth, and then bites down, almost draws blood.

Dean groans, because this - _fuck_ -

“I’m praying this is what you really want,” whispers Cas, claiming his mouth again.

Dean feels Cas’ other hand land on his shoulder, a bit too heavy and somehow tentative, but before he can even say that yes, of course this is okay, and yes, this is exactly what he wants, fuck, how can Cas even _doubt_ \- Cas’ hand moves lower, over his collarbone, and then his fingers graze Dean’s nipples under his tee, and Dean whimpers and then scoffs at himself because, what the hell, he just sounded like a goddamn teenage girl and he isn’t and he’s done this stuff before and it makes no sense that it should feel so different, so much deeper and stronger and -

“I’m praying you won’t regret it in the morning,” adds Cas in a low voice, and then he crashes their faces together with so much strength Dean is quite sure he’ll have bruises on his fucking jaw, and just as sure he won’t care at all.

“Regret what?” he asks, in a brave attempt at flirting back, when Cas allows him to come up for air.

“The things I’ll do to you,” says Cas and this, right here, is the official moment when Dean loses it, as detailed in the police report and in his medical chart and in the full-page advertisements Dean will buy for the _Lebanon Herald_.

 _That’s when I fucking lost it_ , the thing will say, in bold, fat letters, and everybody will nod and agree ( _Yes, obviously, that’s when he fucking lost it, no doubts about it_ ).

Because Dean has imagined this moment before. Of course he has. And he’d hoped that Cas would be just like this - harsh and demanding and completely in control. But, truth be told, the more he’d gotten to know Cas, the more he’d come to realize Cas would probably be the other way around - attentive and sweet and as fluffy as an angora bunny. Which would have been _fine_. Both had worked perfectly fine, as long as fictional boyfriends went.

But this, right now - there is nothing _fictional_ about how solid Cas feels under his mouth. He’s started to glow again, only just, and there is something in his eyes - _something_ \- 

With a growl, Dean moves on top of him and pins Cas’ hands down.

“And what is that?” he asks, his voice low, only just barely there, and then he lowers his head, licks his way to Cas’ left ear, then along his jaw and down his throat, sloppily and dirtily.

It works. 

For one minute, that is. 

For one full, glorious minute, Cas remains where he is, breathing a bit too fast and bucking up against Dean -and Jesus, he’s _hard_ \- Dean clenches his fingers around Cas’ wrists and - _God_ -

But then Cas remembers that he’s a fucking angel, and he opens his eyes again - Dean knows it even if he’s nibbling that perfect secret place where the neck meets the shoulder because the room is suddenly bathed in a bluish glow again - and then Cas moves his head a bit, until he’s speaking right in Dean’s ear.

“Whatever I want,” he says and Dean doesn’t even have time to decide if that will make him explode with need or with superstitious fear before he feels Cas’ hand come up around his neck, bodily lift him up in the air - which should hurt, but Dean’s had worse - and then force him down on the bed.

Dean is allowed to look up at Cas for barely a second - his eyes are bright blue, and he’s crackling with power - before Cas grabs his hips and turns him around. 

“Cas -” Dean says, possibly to remind Cas he’s human and therefore breakable, or maybe to beg Cas to go ahead and just fucking break him already, and then comes a ripping noise when his tee and his boxers are methodically destroyed and thrown aside.

“Dean,” breathes Cas, lowering himself over Dean’s bare back, and Dean turns into a humiliating mess of need and want at the sound of his voice, at the sensation of Cas’ naked skin against his own.

And then Cas pushes right into him, and the world ceases to exist altogether, because it hurts, of course it fucking hurts, and yet it’s the most - the _most_ -

Dean wakes up to the sound of a loud, cheerful song, confused and turned on and fucking terrified.

 _Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad_ , says a girl on the alarm radio, and Dean reaches over and turns it off, his heart pounding inside his chest.

 _Jesus_.

He needs a light. He needs a fucking light, right fucking _now_.

His hand is not trembling, like, at all, when he reaches back and switches on his bedside lamp.

Dean sits up, presses his fingers on his face.

 _The things I’ll do to you_ , says Cas’ voice, but, already, the dream is fading.

Dean breathes out and lets his hands fall.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s known things would end up here ever since Cas had Fallen and, guess what, he’d started to try and have sex with anyone, proving that sex was, in fact, something he wanted. Also relationships, perhaps. Dean had not interfered, but watching Cas cut that rose from his boss’ yard had been fucking difficult, and Dean _knew_ difficult. Or so he’d thought. That moment had defined a whole new set of parameters. Because, well, there had always been something between them - when Cas had first walked inside that barn, Dean had _felt_ it, like a truck coming right at him and leaving a broken mess behind - Dean had _recognized_ Cas. He hadn’t known how, exactly, because he hadn’t remembered (he still doesn’t) how Cas had saved him in Hell, but he’d felt it all the same. And that had gotten deeper over time, despite all the near-misses and the mistakes and the complete madness their lives were.

Dean had known that he was in _love_ with Cas, that he couldn’t be _anything_ without Cas, the second Cas had been ripped apart by the Leviathans. As Cas had stood there, bloody and ruined and magnificent with light, Dean had willed the thing to work, because if it hadn’t - because without Cas -

And then Cas had died - and then he had come back - and his first instinct had been to fix whatever had been broken between them, and Dean hadn’t realized, not then, how completely random that had been, because that had been his own first thought, as well - _Now you’re here, buddy, I’m not letting you leave again_.

But, well, their plan had sort of worked but also sort of blown up in their faces, like all plans seem to do - and then -

But now everything is different. Of course, there’s still Crowley (conflicted feelings there) and a homicidal maniac on their tails (but when isn’t there one?). Also, the world may be ending in some mysterious, douchey way (nothing new there either). And it’s been seven fucking years, and Dean is still messed-up and completely unworthy, but -

When he finally allows himself to look down at Cas, Dean almost expects him to fall short of this essential, vast thing he feels beating inside his chest. No one, surely, no one _real_ , in any case, could measure up to something like this?

Except Cas does.

And so Dean looks down at his still form - Cas is on his back, but somehow he’s not sleeping in a creepy _vampire in the coffin_ position - he looks normal, relaxed. His left arm is curved across his chest, and his right hand is still palm up, as if he expected Dean to take it, to lace their fingers together during the night.

Which Dean hasn’t done, because he’s not a girl. 

Instead, he’s clung, in a manly and dignified way, to Cas’ outstretched arm, his fingers curled just there, over that very important border between skin and cotton.

And, yeah, the Cas in his dream was hot and scary, and the real Cas is also hot and scary, but he’s also sweet and present and completely _his_ , and Dean feels his heart give in to the pressure, only just.

_Jesus._

All of a sudden, he can’t wait one more second before talking to Cas again.

“Buddy,” he says, nudging Cas’ arm. “Hey. Time to wake up.”

Nothing happens. 

Dean turns until he’s sitting right next to Cas, until his shins are touching Cas’ extended right arm, and he bends down a bit.

“Cas,” he calls, keeping his voice barely over a whisper.

He might as well be talking to a statue.

Dean raises one hand up, then lets it fall again.

Because this is how you know it’s love. This is how you know you mean it. When everything you are wants to breach that distance - when the need to touch someone expands inside your lungs until all the air is pushed out - and yet those two inches between the two of you are as insurmountable as the fucking Grand Canyon - when you’re left looking down at that empty space until you _become_ the empty space and nothing makes sense anymore, until you try again and you manage to get a little bit closer and then you stop breathing, and you might actually, very possibly _die_.

But Dean is a grownass man, and he can take it.

Hell, he’s died before.

More than a thousand times, thanks to that dick Gabriel.

And so Dean raises his hand again, pats Cas’ cheek.

“Cas,” he says, passing his thumb on Cas’ lower lip just because he can; and then, when nothing happens, he gets all in, starts stroking Cas’ stupid hair.

Which isn’t weird. Or girly. No, it’s all cold logic at work here, because Dean will want breakfast soon and Cas needs to be awake for that - Dean is not about to leave him here on his own, not after Cas has basically told him he’s borderline afraid to be alone when he’s like this.

But still, nothing happens.

Finally, feeling like a badly-drawn character in a _Jesus H. Christ what the fuck is this thing_ anime, Dean moves one leg until he can lean all the way down to Cas’ face - _Notice me, Senpai_ \- and he kisses Cas on the lips; he kisses Cas like he remembers Cas kissing him in the dream, a bit curious and exploratory, licking and nibbling his lips, but without pushing it, because Cas is still - sleeping, or whatever - and that would be weird.

When Dean pulls away, Cas opens his eyes.

“That was unorthodox,” says Cas, his voice a bit more gravelly than usual.

“Was it?”

“Yes,” says Cas, firmly, as though Dean had been seriously suggesting it wasn’t.

“What’s the proper way to do it, then?” asks Dean, and for a split second, he’s hoping for some kind of dirty joke; but, of course, Cas is not like that.

“There isn’t one,” he says, blinking. “We wake up when we are needed.”

“Well, you _were_ fucking needed and it didn’t seem to matter.”

Cas looks up at him, and there is something new in his expression - a sort of quiet hunger.

“Was I? How so?” he asks, tilting his head back in invitation, and Dean just shakes his head and laughs a bit.

“You _dog_ ,” he says, and he leans down again, and this time they’re kissing properly - Cas’ hand comes up in Dean’s hair, and Dean moves his hand down, slides it all along Cas’ side, slow and languorous, still blown away by the fact that he can, in fact, do this; that everything is different now. 

As they kiss, the sheets over Cas’ body somehow disappear, and Dean ends up half draped over Cas, one elbow propping himself up and his right hand on Cas’ hip. He’s brushed against Cas’ erection, and he’s desperate to touch him there, but he isn’t sure about the limits here - if there are any, and where the line is.

“Am I - can I -” he says, against Cas’ lips, and Cas’ fingers tighten in his hair. 

“Whatever you want,” says Cas, softly, “you can have.”

_Jesus._

Dean has to raise his head a little, has to at least try and gather his thoughts, but he can’t stop touching Cas, not really, and his treacherous fingers are already starting to inch under the no-nonsense fabric of Cas’ boxers. He forces himself to stop the movement, but he can’t look into Cas’ eyes, not now.

“What about what _you_ want?” he asks, breathing a bit unsteadily, and he can actually feel Cas frown.

“Whatever you want, that’s what I want.”

“That’s - that’s not how it works,” Dean says, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Love is not self-seeking,” says Cas, and this time he reaches up, turns Dean’s head back towards him, and when Dean sees the expression on his face - how completely sincere and unguarded and undone Cas is, he’s overcome with the sudden fear that this will not work, because Cas is too much, because Cas is different and alien and he doesn’t get it and he will get _hurt_ and -

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, a bit brokenly.

“What did you mean?”

“Cas - we sort of have to be on the same page, here.”

Cas frowns.

“You asked for my permission - you have it.”

He makes it sound so simple. Dean sort of laughs, shakes his head.

“Cas, I can’t just do whatever I want, I -”

There’s no way to finish that sentence. Dean is not sure at all about what the ending should be.

“You can’t hurt me, Dean,” says Cas, and then he opens his mouth again, and it’s obvious he’s going to say something stupid to do with Banishing sigils and Holy Oil, as if Dean were an actual sick fuck who’d want to use Holy Oil in bed and try his damnedest to actually, physically hurt Cas.

“That’s not the point,” says Dean, but he has forgotten what, exactly, the point it.

He’s never been with a virgin; never had any interest in trying. He likes his women (his men) cocksure and joyous, and if they want to have the upper hand for a bit, well - Dean will make them work for it, but he’s more than happy to.

And this, here, seems way too dangerous. Because Cas may be millions of years old and able to hear through walls, but he doesn’t _know_ \- this, right here, is about giving, not taking. And Dean has wanted this for so long, he can barely control himself - he needs Cas in here with him, all the way.

“Have you ever thought about this?” he asks, a bit desperately, but Cas blushes a bit, and that makes things much easier.

“I might have,” he offers, carefully.

“What did you think about?” says Dean, lowering his voice, and his fingers start moving again; they draw small, enticing circles on Cas’ hip, tracing the smooth skin, feeling the bone underneath.

Cas makes a sound which is not a sound at all.

“I am not human,” he says after a moment, his voice little more than a whisper. “I am not sure I can be what you want me to be.”

Dean smiles fondly at the worry in Cas’ eyes.

“You’re already everything I want you to be,” he says, and, somehow, it doesn’t sound soppy at all.

Okay, maybe it _does_ sound soppy, but if anyone wants to make fun of him, let them try. He has a secret Bunker full of weapons. He can fucking _take_ them.

They kiss again, and this time Dean decides to go with his instincts and slowly inches his fingers inside Cas’ sensible boxers, and then up, tracing his ribs, skimming over his nipples, as he listens to Cas’ quiet intake of breath, to soft strings of vowels which may be Enochian or may be just Dean doing his job right. 

And when Cas is naked, Dean sits up a bit and looks at him. 

It’s - it’s -

“What are you thinking?” asks Cas, and he sounds half out of it, and also slightly worried.

“Can’t you tell?” Dean answers, because, really, he’s never been so happy and turned-on in his entire life and surely that must be written all over his face, not to mention other parts of his body (parts which are currently pressing up against Cas’ thigh).

Cas, however, takes it as an invitation to dip inside his brain, and Dean feels it, only just, the sudden warmth, the slight pressure against the top of his skull.

“Jesus,” he says, lowering his head to kiss Cas again. “You do that now, you might not like what you see.”

“I do like it,” says Cas, and the sensation fades and disappears as Cas steps inside his own mind again. “Do it,” he adds. “Please?”

And that’s more like it, because Dean had been thinking about something very specific he’s been wanting to do for a very long time; and this Cas, right here, with his blue eyes impossibly wide, this Cas who’s now licking his lips in anticipation, this is someone Dean can get onboard with. This is someone who _wants_ it. All that bullshit about the selflessness of love has evaporated, and Dean smiles at the thought. He doesn’t want Cas selfless; not now. The guy has given enough of himself already. 

“ _Please_ always works,” says Dean, and then he starts licking his way down, nibbling at Cas’ skin, closing his teeth on Cas’ nipples until Cas whimpers.

He can feel Cas’ erection pressing up against him, greedy and filthy and exactly right, and when he gets there, he looks up, sees Cas staring at him, lips parted.

“Yes?” he says, and Cas just keeps staring as if the question makes no sense at all.

Dean smiles, slow and evil, and he pushes his tongue out, only just, to taste Cas. 

It’s been a long time since he's done this, and he’s never had _this_ , anyway - the time to do it properly, with someone who’s still going to be here in the morning, someone he -

_God._

The pressure is suddenly too much - he remembers, like a flash of light, Cas’ voice, echoing up from his dream. 

_I’m praying this is what you really want._

It hadn’t been Cas, obviously. This is all him, this is the bitchy part of himself making him doubt everything, all over again, because he’s never had this, not really - he doesn’t know how to do relationships, and he’s so damn scared he’ll mess it up -

_I’m praying you won’t regret it in the morning._

And how can Cas _want_ him - Dean has always been damaged goods, but all the crap he's pulled as a demon is a whole other upgrade of crazy and broken - Dean has the sudden and unwelcome certainty that Cas is simply - as he’d told them, he doesn’t have anywhere to go, not now Heaven has kicked him out, and -

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

“I - nothing, I -”

Cas reaches down, puts his right hand over Dean’s left and laces their fingers together.

“I’ve been wanting to be here for a long time,” he says, and his serious voice is completely at odds with what they’re doing - Dean is still kneeling between his legs, for God’s sake. “With you. Like this. You may think you’re not good enough, but you are - to me - everything.”

Dean can only look at Cas. There’s nothing else he can possibly do for what could be a minute, or even two.

Then he shakes his head, tries to laugh it off.

“God, I’m making a mess of things. I’m sorry.”

“Come here,” says Cas, and Dean does.

They start kissing again, and Dean tries to silence Cas, to breathe the silly, romantic things Cas is saying right out of his mouth, because they’re making him way too warm; he decides to start making his job right instead, and he sort of succeeds, because after a while, Cas stops talking, starts to make these half sounds again, these soft whimpers which make Dean even warmer; and then the next time they try it it’s not this huge, tense thing anymore; it’s just something Dean really wants to do, something Cas is more than ready for.

So Dean takes him in his mouth, and he does it slowly, not so much because he wants to check for Cas’ reaction but because he’s an evil, evil bastard. He keeps his eyes open at first, thinking maybe Cas wants to look at him, but Cas is completely out of it, his hands fisted in the sheets, his head thrown back - Dean can see the beautiful curve of his neck, can hear his ragged breathing, which is a victory in itself, because, of course, Cas doesn’t need to breathe at all. 

He comes up, just a bit, and then lowers his head again, falling into a rhythm that is precise enough to build up to something, and yet at times unforeseen, because he kind of likes the sounds Cas is making, and he wants Cas to keep making them for a while longer; and when the need to touch himself becomes just too much, he touches Cas instead - he grazes his short nails on the inside of Cas’ thighs, and then he brings his fingers higher, right where Cas wants him, and that’s when Cas breathes out his name.

“Dean,” he says, and he sounds - undone, almost afraid.

Dean raises his head up, kisses Cas’ hipbone.

“Let go,” he whispers. “I’ll catch you.”

He lowers his mouth on Cas again, and after a couple of seconds he feels it happen - he actually _feels_ it, everywhere inside his own body - it’s warmth to start with, the kind of necessary warmth of the afternoon sun after cold water, and then it grows into something more, something far deeper, far _vaster_ \- it robs him of all rational thinking, makes him hold on for dear life, his hands pressed to Cas’ sides, because this - holy hell, _this_ -

The room explodes in white blue flash, and then there is a sudden loud noise as things fall down, and the light bulbs explode, and the shelf behind Dean’s bed cracks and almost collapses and the weapons on top of it - most of them with carefully sharpened blades - almost crash down on them both.

Dean finds he doesn’t care at all. Being gutted by a hugeass knife has absolutely no importance in the grand scheme of things. None whatsoever.

When things have stopped shaking, he forces himself to inch his way up in the disheveled bed, reaching out in the darkness to find Cas’ arms, his face; leaning over him, then stopping, and finally kissing Cas, long and deep, when he feels Cas’ hands inviting him down.

“That good, uh?” says Dean, smiling against Cas’ mouth, and Cas smiles back.

“Yes,” he says, simply. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Dean answers, and then he collapses back on his side of the bed. “You are going to cost me a fortune in light bulbs and nails and shit, though.”

Cas laughs.

“I’ll do my best to control it,” he says, and Dean reaches over, grabs his hand.

“Please don’t.”

They remain in silent for a long moment, just breathing together, waiting for the world to make sense again.

“What about you?” says Cas in the end, and Dean snorts.

“I already - Jesus, didn’t you feel that?”

“I seem to have been - distracted,” says Cas, and that should be sort of insulting, because this nerdy, virgin angel somehow has made him come harder than he’s ever come in his life and hasn’t even noticed, except the thoughtful way Cas said that last word, _distracted_ , like he isn't sure it's the right one, is more than enough to make up for his lack of attention.

Also, there’s always next time.

“How -” starts Cas, and he doesn’t finish the sentence.

Dean grins. _Unable to finish his sentences_ is a good look on Cas, he thinks, wishing he could see his face and not having to rely on the slight awkwardness of his voice.

“I was close already, and you sort of pulled me down with you.”

“I apologize, I didn’t realize -”

 _God_.

The guy is _apologizing_. 

Dean snorts again, a bit louder, hoping that Cas will take the hint and stop saying stupid things.

“Are you kidding - it was -”

“It must have been the bond,” says Cas, slow and a bit unsure, as if he doesn’t know what reaction Dean is going to have in finding out that when Cas dragged him out of Hell, he inadvertently gave him the power to share his own orgasms. 

Or something.

And whatever it is, it’s awesome. Dean is _not_ complaining.

“Breakfast?” he says, lazily, and he reaches over, flicks on the emergency torch he keeps inside his bedside table. “Hey, you didn’t fry this,” he adds, a bit disappointed. “I must try harder next time.”

He turns around, and Cas is just looking at him, half exasperated, half amused, and the expression is so endearingly familiar Dean starts grinning again.

“It’s no joking matter, Dean,” he says, as Dean stands up and starts fishing for a clean pair of boxers and his discarded clothes. “If I keep losing control like this, I could hurt you.”

Dean shrugs.

“You can always patch me up later.”

“You are impossible,” says Cas, and when he stands up from the bed he’s fully dressed again - shirt freshly pressed and tie askew.

Dean pulls a t-shirt over his head and toes inside his shoes without bothering with socks.

“I guess that’s why you -” he says, and he had intended it as a joke, because that’s what you say, except you usually say it to be an annoying tease, and this is _true_ , this is _real_ , and the words seem all wrong.

So he stops talking, walks up to Cas instead, tries, and fails, to fix his hair.

“By the way, you know -” he starts, and then stops.

“Yes?”

“What you said - before.”

“What about it?” says Cas, because Cas is awesome and he knows exactly what Dean means.

“It was - it’s - well, same here. I guess.”

Dean looks up again, finds Cas is staring back at him, stern and amused at the same time.

“You guess?” he asks, in his best smiting voice.

“Fine,” says Dean, his mouth a bit dry. “I _know_.” 

Cas pulls him closer and kisses him.

“I know you know,” he says, against his lips. “I may be Fallen and addicted to the Netflix -”

“And to filthy, filthy porn -”

“- but I can still see your soul, Dean Winchester.”

“Good,” says Dean, and he reaches down, kisses him. “I'm all for it.”

He opens the door and sort of pushes Cas out in front of him, suddenly desperate for coffee and bacon - and then freezes when he sees Sam coming out of his own room.

Sam looks at him, then at Cas, and his eyebrows do a thing that they have no right to do - not after Sam drove a hundred miles and back for a fucking black and white movie he’s seen twelve times already, and not after he apparently drove back just in time to change into his girly, pervy running gear and head out into the woods like some freaking Universal Soldier.

“Don't say a fucking _word_ ,” says Dean, slamming the door shut behind him.

He’s imagined this moment a lot of times, too; and he’s always thought that if anything ever happened between him and Cas - which it wouldn’t have - not ever - then telling Sam would have been embarrassing and weird. Dean had considered moving two States over; and also cunning and careful plans to hide the whole thing. And killing Sam. Only if worse came to worst, of course. 

But all of a sudden, he finds he doesn’t care. 

And, even better, Sam doesn’t care either.

“I’m glad you talked,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Dean watches his brother disappear, almost disappointed by how low-key the whole thing has been, then turns back look at Cas, and what he sees on his face pushes everything - that irritated, groundless disappointment, and his need for bad coffee and his anxiety about the Darkness and impending doom - right out of his mind.

 _God, I love you so fucking much_ , he thinks, and when Cas smiles at him, he knows he’s heard him - maybe his soul has turned pink, or something. 

“You eating this morning?” asks Dean, trying, and failing, to seem completely unruffled.

“I could eat,” says Cas seriously, and Dean claps him on the shoulder.

“Great. I’ll make the pancakes, and you can get started on chopping the kale and dead rats for Sam’s smoothie.”

**Author's Note:**

> Doflamingo and Tsuru are _One Piece_ characters.
> 
> “You have either the worst game, or the best.” - from Annie_D’s astounding series, _Not Part of the Plan_. I hope you’ve all read it, because, if you haven't - _seriously_. Get it together, people.


End file.
